


A story about a cat

by polyphenols



Category: Samurai Warriors
Genre: Bakeneko, Fix-It of Sorts, Japanese Mythology & Folklore, M/M, Mild Innuendo, Morbid Humor, kind of but not really about cats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3451643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polyphenols/pseuds/polyphenols
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year after Sekigahara, Takatora finds out something about cats on his birthday. Follows Mitsunari's story in SW4-II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A story about a cat

It was the sixteenth day of the second month. The late winter wind was as stiff as a hand towel left to dry in below-freezing weather, and the air was as bitterly cold as the innermost recesses of Todo Takatora’s heart. Takatora sat in his study, wrapped up in thick blankets like a morose and puffed-up winter bird, scowling at the architectural designs in front of him. It wasn’t a bad way to spend the day, he supposed. If only someone had actually remembered what day it was.

“Happy birthday, Takatora.”

Takatora turned at the sound of the words spoken softly behind him. For a moment he stared at the figure silhouetted in doorway, blinking and speechless, and then gave himself a loud, resounding slap.

“What are you doing?” the visitor asked.

“I, ah, hahaha, I’m just checking to see if I’m dreaming.” Takatora had no idea what kind of face he was making at the moment. Grinning? Incredulous? On the brink of tears? Or just awash in pure, unmitigated foolishness?

“You didn’t slap hard enough for that,” Otani Yoshitsugu replied, walking closer. “Here, let me help you.”

Before he managed to accomplish that feat, Takatora reached out and caught him by the wrist. Yoshitsugu wasn’t wearing those iron claws for once, and his hand was quite warm. A million thoughts raced through Takatora’s mind, not least of which was that he now knew what it felt like to touch Yoshitsugu’s _hand_ , but the first thing that came out of his mouth was, “You’re alive?!”

Yoshitsugu blinked once—twice—and sighed as if he had to explain something very simple. “Yes, I’m alive.”

“But how? I mean, I…”

Many things had happened at Sekighara the year before, and while it had perhaps not been the absolute worst turn of events (which is to say, Takatora had not found himself in a situation where he had to kill Yoshitsugu personally, and therefore only cried for a month instead of a year), he was still hard-pressed to believe that his friend could have survived. After all, at the end of the battle, he had seen him looking not particularly alive with his own eyes. And then…

“You buried me? That was something that happened, yes.”

“Then how, what, why?” Takatora made wild gesticulating motion with one hand.

“I appreciate the flowers, but…”

“That wasn’t the original idea. I mean, with the flowers. I was going to fill up your hat with flowers and have you holding it, but I couldn’t get it off—” Too late did Takatora realize that all the time he had lavished on his architectural hobby had given him the soul of a designer, and it might not have been a good idea to describe to someone his ideal vision for their funeral.

“No one can take off my hat except for myself, Takatora.” Yoshitsugu said this in such a matter-of-fact manner that it almost didn’t seem weird.

“Okay,” Takatora said. What followed felt like a pause contained inside a larger pause contained inside the echoing vacuum that was his thick fucking skull. Yoshitsugu was blinking at him with the amusement of a mildly disdainful or just sleepy cat. “Can you explain,” he finally managed to say. “To me. Why you’re alive, and things of that nature.”

“I do trust you, Takatora. I trust you with my life, and more than that.” The way Yoshitsugu’s voice softened then made Takatora’s heart leap up in his throat, made him think of so many things he wanted to and did not want to recall—and then Yoshitsugu’s voice dropped to a frigid pitch as he leaned over to stare at him with unnervingly pale eyes. “So if you tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you here, I will curse your chin to fall off in three years.”

“Ah, hahahaha, I definitely won’t tell.”

“It’s actually quite simple. I am a cat, you see.”

Takatora laughed, and only when he was done laughing did he see that Yoshitsugu was still staring at him with that level, unnerving glare. “No, what’s the real answer?”

“I told you. I am a cat.”

Takatora took a deep breath and tried to process this information in seriousness. “So what you’re saying is that you’re like, a _bakeneko_ or something.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“All right, well, I can’t say I’m too surprised.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you look like a cat, you have a hat that looks like a cat, you sleep like a cat, you act like a cat sometimes, you’re not…particularly nice to me, like a cat…” Takatora tried to recall the old tales he had heard while growing up, those of cats that became _yokai_ with age and attained human form. One saying went that even in their human disguise, a _bakeneko_ could be distinguished by its rude behavior. He had never thought the day would come when he would put credence in those tales. “Wait, what are you doing?”

Yoshitsugu had taken one of his hand towels and was beginning to pick apart its frayed edges, with a look of undisguised contentment on what little showed of his face. “No, no, stop that,” Takatora cried out and reached for the towel, but with some little sleight-of-hand motion it disappeared into Yoshitsugu’s coat. “Great, that explains why my hand towels seemed to vanish every time you came over.”

“Don’t worry, I took good care of them. Well, by your standard of taking good care of something, at least.”

“And what is that?”

“Giving it a nice funeral.”

“Can we please drop that—” Takatora tried to think of some better topic to move to, the pounding of his heart having not really calmed down since Yoshitsugu stepped into the room, for various reasons. “Anyway, I’m happy to see you. I’m glad that you’re alive. And not entirely hating me. I didn’t need to say that part, right?”

“I am happy to see you as well, Takatora.” Yoshitsugu was smiling at him now with his eyes curved delightfully like those of a drowsy cat. The hand towel was out again and slowly being dismantled, but Takatora chose to ignore that. He thought about cats falling asleep tangled up in the string they had been playing with—could he convince Yoshitsugu to sleep here? What the hell was his subconscious suggesting to him? Maybe there was a chance for it, as long as he kept his forthright, honest, stupid mouth in check—

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? It’s been five months.”

“I had to see Mitsunari and Sakon safely out of the country first. Even if Mitsunari’s dream could not be realized, I can hope that he may find another one, someday, and maybe he doesn’t have to look far. By now they are probably somewhere with a warm climate that makes the mofu impractical to wear, but surely he will get used to it.”

“Oh, god damn it.”

The sleepy-cat look was replaced by the glare of death once more. “This is a very important matter, Takatora, and I must warn you again, if you tell anyone what has happened, in three years more than your chin will fall off.”

“I won’t tell a soul.” Takatora supposed that as someone on the winning side, he really had no further right to concern himself with what the survivors of the Western Army did. After such a war had torn the country asunder, what he needed to focus on now was making amends, one small thing at a time. “Do you want tea? Something to eat? What do cats eat, anyway? Why are you staring at my lamp?”

“It’s too early in the day to be working in a cold dark room with only lamplight to see by. The sun’s coming out, it’s getting a bit warmer outside now, let’s take a walk or go to the mochi shop. Don’t worry, if anyone tries to speak of who you were with, they will only recall some insignificant person, difficult to describe. And when I come to your house at odd hours they will only see a cat going over the walls.”

“That’s a little creepy. I mean, I’m very glad you’ve thought that far ahead. Don’t give me that look, I know nothing pleases you so much as being called creepy. Are you really planning to come to my house in the middle of the night?”

Yoshitsugu gave him a sideways glance, a brief closed-eyes smile, and that elegant little gesture he had of tapping his collar with two graceful fingers—a gesture so completely discordant with what he said next. “You’ll find out soon enough. But let’s get out of here, Takatora, or I’ll feel terribly compelled to lick the oil out of that fucking lamp.”

Apparently the tales of _bakeneko_ favoring lamp oil were true, Takatora thought as he was dragged away by the hand. He would have to invest in candles.

 

.

 

It was evening by the time they turned back toward home once more. They had spent the day in the town, amusing themselves with small diversions and endless things to talk about, and Takatora had not felt so carefree in years. By now it was dark, and he was substantially drunk, though he thought the mochi he had consumed would surely offset the effects of alcohol and not let him make a fool of himself. “I have many questions on the nature of cats,” he proclaimed.

“Mm hmm,” Yoshitsugu replied, as if he had long anticipated this would happen and would try to bear with it as best as he could.

“Do you really like to dance? While wearing hand towels?”

“No one likes that as much as you do, Takatora.”

“I mean, we could dance. You could teach me the hand-towel-cat-dance with all your cat friends. I would be absolutely ecstatic.”

“Maybe some other time. How sober do you think you’ll be by the time we get home, by the way?”

“Haah? I’m totally good.” Takatora realized that Yoshitsugu was holding his hand, and the delight of that revelation was enough to make him lose his train of thought. “What was I saying…about cats and things, right? Is Mitsunari a fox?”

“That is a state secret of the Western Army command, and if I were to tell you, in three years the things that will fall off will include—”

“No, never mind, don’t tell me. But you’re definitely a cat.”

“Yes.”

“Just checking. How did you manage to do it anyway, that time, what kind of cat magic did you use to escape?”

“Oh, I died.” Yoshitsugu said this in such a calm and nonchalant manner that it did not even register with Takatora at first. Then it did, and he whirled around, put both hands on Yoshitsugu’s shoulders, and tried to make something resembling coherent speech come out of his mouth. “Wh-what, I, I’m so sorry, I…”

“I’m fine.” Yoshitsugu placed his own hands over Takatora’s hands, moved them away without letting go. “In this country many of the secrets of the _bakeneko_ remain unknown to the populace, which I am glad for, because some of them can only be discovered by means that are not terribly pleasant. But the Westerners seem to know. They have this saying, after all, that a cat has nine lives.”

“Ah,” Takatora said, not knowing how to respond. “And you—”

“Yes.”

“How many lives do you have left?”

A brief smile. “I don’t think you need to know that, Takatora. Let’s keep things interesting.”

“Then you’ve got to stop being so reckless, my god. You have to look where you’re going, and move out of the way when people are shooting at you—”

“Do you anticipate people will continue to shoot at me, in the future? Are you going to be Japan’s foremost expert on how many lives a cat has? You’re already partway there—”

“Oh god, don’t say things like that. I just don’t want to lose you.” An immediacy took hold of him, what he supposed was the flow of the moment, and Takatora threw his arms around Yoshitsugu, held him close and buried his face against Yoshitsugu’s shoulder. After the initial shock of what he had done, he continued standing there, perilously content in their closeness and warmth. They were far from the crowded main streets of the town now, and nearly at the gates of his own residence, so thankfully there were no passersby to stop and stare. Maybe he didn’t need to say anything else, Takatora thought, maybe this was as perfect a moment as he could hope for.

“I hope my chin isn’t too sharp,” he added before he could stop himself, and Yoshitsugu slapped him on the top of his head. They both laughed, and after a long moment he looked up to see Yoshitsugu’s smiling eyes. “You weren’t mad at me? For all the stupid shit I said, or did, everything I had to do.”

“You have always been true to yourself, my friend, and that has always been what I asked of you. But now you can be true to yourself in a way that allows for you to be happy and at ease, and that is also what I would like to see. I couldn’t be happier.”

“So you really came to see me because you wanted to see me?” Takatora almost wished he could kick himself for the wistful and genuine way he had just said something which was redundant and made absolutely no sense.

“I came to see you because I’m very fond of you, Takatora.”

“Oh my god,” Takatora said, and felt the grin spread over his face.

“Let’s go inside, now.”

“Yeah, let’s.”

“But first, do you have any more questions about cats?”

“Do I have to? Is this some evil scheme of yours again? Okay, do _bakeneko_ really have two tails?”

“What?”

“Okay, never mind. I was definitely not implying that you do. Anything you keep in your undergarments is your business and—oh god, I’m going to shut up. Do you have cat ears under your hat?” For a moment after that, he could swear that Yoshitsugu’s blinking was _audible_. “Hah, sorry, please don’t blink like you’re mad at me. If I _have_ to ask something—why is it that you haven’t mentioned the flow all day?”

“The flow, well—” Yoshitsugu’s eyes widened a little, like those of a cat after dark, and whether he was surprised or pleased Takatora could not tell. “That is something that belongs to a past life, and what I needed then and now are very different, that’s all. The flow of every river and stream, after all, will eventually find its way to the ocean, and every wandering life will find its way home.”

There was another long pause in which Takatora doubled over and began making small noises, until Yoshitsugu asked in a soft voice, “Are you all right?”

“Y-yeah, I’m just going to cry a bit. I’m going to carry you inside, and you don’t get to protest, all right?”

“Why, of course,” Yoshitsugu said, as Takatora lifted him up in his arms. “And one more thing, Takatora. About my hat.”

“Your _hat_?”

“You can check tonight to see whether I have cat ears if you want. But I doubt you’ll remember to. The hat is the very last thing that’s coming off.”

 

 

 

 

 

THE END

 

 

2.16.2015 happy birthday tktr

**Author's Note:**

> For more information on bakeneko, Wikipedia or a quick search will give you all kinds of delightful information on their love of hand towels, dancing, lamp oil, mischief, murder(...), and how "a bakeneko will most definitely not love you".


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